As Iron
by ilysia
Summary: A vicious enemy learns that what appears to be weakness is truly the Narnian kings' greatest strength.


**Disclaimer:** Anything you recognize from Narnia is the property of C S Lewis or Walden Media. Taisto and Veli are mine, loath as I am to claim them.  
**A/N:** It came as a bit of a surprise to me that this would be the first story I've done that centers on Peter and Edmund's brotherhood. Funny, that. I've kicked the rating up a notch simply because Taisto is a nasty piece of work.

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**As Iron**

He had his generals and his army and he used them, the cowardly man-child. Directing his soldiers, speaking with his scouts, all the while eyeing me across the field of battle. He watched me with those damned blue eyes and I imagined the way he would look when my teeth were at his throat. He wouldn't smile then.

With a snarl, I turned to my brother. "Have the packs gathered?"

I watched as he dug his claws into the soft palms of his hands, wondering if he knew that his fear was palpable as fresh blood. "Yes, but they're not happy, Taisto. The packs don't work well together. You know this."

Impertinence. "Don't presume upon our blood-ties, Veli. They didn't help our sire and they won't help you." There was never any fight in my brother. Instead of defending himself, he lolled his head, showing the pale fur at his throat. He cowered, murmuring that I was always the wise elder and he the foolish younger. "Besides," I said, cutting across his simpering flattery, "they gathered for Her. They can do so for me."

"Yes, brother."

"Go."

He ran off, glad to be far from my volatile temper. He'd seen what I could do when in a rage. He'd been there when I killed that sorry excuse for a pack leader who had the gall to call himself my father. That fool had served the Winter Queen and let himself get tied up in the plots of Giant-spawn. But Werewolves do not serve well and fools who make mistakes end up dead. If he had only had the strength to do what I had done, my father might still be living. Perhaps.

I cast my gaze over my horde, my writhing, fearsome, gruesome horde. All the packs were here, even those southern clans who hailed from the sandy sea beyond the southern mountains. They were drawn by promises of battle, blood, and feasting; drawn to me, to fight for me and take the little kings from their little thrones and give Narnia back to the Night.

The howl went up, long and slow, signaling the release of hell. They charged forward in their family packs, brother matching brother, father joining mother. The little man-kings might sneer at us, but they had never faced dozens of packs of ravenous Werewolves. With a laugh, I loosed my own cry and plunged into the charge. At my left, Veli panted to keep up with me, running as we all were on two legs, like men.

Ahead of me, I saw the blue-eyed king nod to his general and lower his helm. For now, he was confident. Our gait and demeanor were something he could understand. But when the scent of blood filled the air, my horde would become a savage, raging beast that the youth had no way of comprehending.

The man-king's soldiers began their own charge, slow and measured, drawing their weapons as they came. To trust in swords of forged metal was folly; their weapons would twist and bend but ours- the teeth and claws of our people- would rip and tear long after their blades went dull. I could smell victory on the hot air mingling with the scent of fear and the expectation of blood. The taste grew so enticing as to be unbearable. And then the armies clashed.

It took longer than I expected to drive the little king into a rage. After all, the man-child could not be more than sixteen winters. When I had his youth, a single insult could spark a blood feud between myself and the offender. But this one was different, cool, calculating. I had hoped that after my Werewolves spilt enough Narnian blood, he would lose his calm confidence and flee or come after me himself. But he remained composed, infuriatingly so, and continued to destroy pack members with all the devastating indifference of a wildfire. He kept fighting and killing and leading his army.

But he did have a weakness and he betrayed himself by continually watching. Watching… there. Not far from the blue-eyed Son of Adam was another, smaller and darker than the first, who was fighting his way towards the Narnian king. But there were two man-child kings, I remembered, and so the dark one must be the brother. The traitor. How fitting.

They were moving closer, fighting their ways towards each other. Together they could be dangerous, their own little pack, but I did not intend to let it get that far. I barked out a command to the fighter nearest to me and he darted at the blue-eyed one, his claws extended and foam coating his mouth. The Werewolf would die, no doubt, but he would delay the little king long enough for my purposes.

I dropped to all fours and made my way towards the dark one, anticipating the taste of blood. He was fighting well, but he was not as strong as the older king and he was too small, in the long run, to survive such a battle. They say the blood of kings runs blue.

A sudden flash of fur and there was my brother, little Veli, teeth bared and head high, standing in front of the dark king. My brother knew I was watching him and I sensed that this was all for my benefit. If Veli had his own way, he'd be miles from this place. But he of all people knew how long my displeasure could last. He probably suspected that if he didn't acquit himself well in this battle, I might cast him out into the wild to fend for himself.

"You die now," Veli snarled, circling the dark one. The man-child, to his credit, just tossed his head and stared his opponent down. It was a surprisingly weighty gaze for one so young. Never subtle, my idiot brother gave a growl and then leapt at the king. There was a flash of silver and an agonized howl and Veli fell in a pool of his own blood.

At first there was only fury. Fury at the dark king, fury at his bright sword, fury at the day and at my brother's idiocy. We had played together as cubs, Veli and I, and despite his weakness we were brothers. But I did not become pack-leader by being sentimental. Sentimentality was for weaklings and prey. After all, what's one brother, more or less?

Chuckling, I advanced on the now panting man-king. I took fallen Veli's position and began to circle the child. He looked so tired, so small, and blood trickled down his face from a cut beneath his brow. To my disappointment, it was no fantastic shade of royal blue. Perhaps traitors, even traitors who are kings, have common blood.

"I should thank you."

He started, confused by my words.

"He was my brother," I explained in the slow words of one talking to an idiot, "and your killing him saved me the bother." I made sure to trod on Veli's body as I passed it. "Maybe your brother will offer me the same thanks."

He fought admirably, I suppose, but to a Werewolf the only thing that counts is whether you're alive at the end of the day. I caught his mailed arm in my maw and latched on, pulling him to the ground. His scream was tinged with pain and more than a hint of fear, but there was anger there also, and fight. I crouched on his chest and dug my claws into his shoulders even as I kept him pinned.

A knife flashed in his hand before he plunged it into my thigh. In my battle lust, I barely even felt the blade. I smiled at him, licking his blood from my face. "It's not blue," I laughed, "but it suits me well enough, little king." He snarled and looked about to reply, but before he could there came a furious cry.

"Edmund!"

The cry came from behind me and I turned, ripping my claws from the boy's shoulders. The elder king was there, his eyes wild, and I had just enough time to rise to my full height before he rammed me back to the earth with his shield. Looking up at him, I could see the rage.

"Get up."

I rose warily, licking my lips nervously, unsure of what I had released. I'd wanted him to come after me, but this, too, was unexpected. He attacked silently, furiously, driving me across the field without a thought. He was too fast, too unexpected for me to get a blow in. Never before had I been on so constantly on the defensive.

The man-child drove me back across the field of battle, back towards the marshes. Around us I could sense the battle finishing. Werewolves were surrendering, begging for mercy and release. I couldn't say that this was unexpected, but I had hoped to kill at least one of the kings in exchange for the slaughter of my kinsmen. The sounds of fighting grew quieter until only my own harsh, gasping breaths and the calm, controlled breathing of my opponent were to be heard.

When I finally stumbled, I knew I was finished. I lay panting, my fur matted with sweat and blood, gazing up a length of shining steel that led directly to a pair of blazing blue eyes. He was furious, horribly so, and he wanted nothing more than to kill me. But there was something else in those fiery eyes and I sensed that he was warring with himself. I saw that inner battle and I could have crowed in triumph. This little king had me at his mercy and he was too weak to strike a deathblow.

There were quiet footsteps and the dark king stood at his brother's side, his arm already bandaged by a physician and his helm held loosely at his side. I grinned to see the blood staining the snowy linen. The blue-eyed king's sword dropped and his eyes flew to his brother. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Fool, to take his eyes from me while I still drew breath. Perhaps he thought that his momentary mercy would earn my gratitude. Perhaps he thought his soldiers would protect him. But he had obviously never seen the quickness of a desperate Werewolf and, as my father once said, the only greater weakling than one who asks for a reprieve is one who grants it.

The little king may have destroyed my army, but I would have his life, at least. It would be easy, I thought, to take the fool's life while his sword was down and his eyes were on his brother.

The guards loosed cries of alarm, but it was too late.

Even then, I underestimated them.

The younger brother drew his sword so quickly that I was still gloating over my victory as the blade ripped into me. The shock of it completely blocked the pain as I crashed into the little king, once more toppling him.

He pushed me away and withdrew his sword, leaving me gasping on the hard ground. Through the pain and the darkness that was beginning to cloud my vision, I saw the elder reach down and grasp his brother's hand, helping the dark one to his feet. They stood for a moment like that; an arm's length apart, and then the blue-eyed king pulled his brother into a tight embrace, resting his head on the dark hair.

Each was the other's weakness.

Each was the other's strength.

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_As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another._

_-Proverbs 27:17_


End file.
